


Peace in the Morning

by running_in_circles



Series: Of Roses and Of Lions [6]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, Dysfunctional Family, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Family Dinners, Family Issues, Gen, Government, Lunch, Makeup, Peace
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26236291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/running_in_circles/pseuds/running_in_circles
Summary: August 2018. A lunch with Pakistan, and a dinner date with England. India's life has changed in ways even she could not have predicted in the last few years.
Relationships: England & Ireland (Hetalia), England & Northern Ireland & Scotland & Wales (Hetalia), England/Female India (Hetalia), England/India (Hetalia), India & Pakistan (Hetalia)
Series: Of Roses and Of Lions [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/261634
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	1. Biriyani

**Author's Note:**

> Recently, I've been writing a lot about the events of a very particular time period in this series, and events that are centred only around its two main characters, come to that. This series was always planned to be much, much bigger than that, in scope and in the characters that get a spotlight, and this fic in some ways in an attempt to branch out a little bit, and start exploring the other relationships that are pretty integral to the series. Recent past events referenced here will also very likely be fics of their own in the future, and I have lots and lots of fics I want to write that aren't set in the modern period or directly feature England/India as much, but this is a story I've been exploring for a while, and a dynamic I really want to explore more so this is being put out as a beginning to all that.
> 
> PS: yes I know this is a ridiculous name for this chapter

India has been deliberating for a while. For a week, in fact. She considers in the mornings as she watches her kettle boil blearily, feet icy on her stone kitchen floor; she thinks in between tasks in her little office in the Secretariat Building in New Delhi, idly watching her loyal fan stutter this way and that, swirling dry heat around the room; it plays across the back of her mind as she scours through the papers she takes home with her every evening, diligently working through the politics she has inevitably run out of time to advise and influence in the day.

The target of the intense deliberation has mostly been the biriyani, but some of the heat has been reserved for the raita that will follow and still some is reserved for the side dishes that pop in and out of existence as she dismisses them and reconsiders them in turn.

Food means a lot. She tries to explain as much to England when she calls him on Saturday, running through the different implications of the dishes as she runs out of time to make the choice. She is in the tiny home office she’s made for herself at the back of her Delhi flat, her usual snowstorm of papers strewn across the desk in blinding lamplight.

He listens mostly, humming quietly and reassuringly whenever she pauses. They both know that this is more to arrange her thoughts and let her weigh up the implications of different dishes and meats and vegetables than anything else – _England_ advising her on what to cook is not something either of them have ever contemplated. And in this case, she wants England’s opinion less than ever. He seems to be aware of that too, in his quietness on the phone. Eventually, he ends the call telling her that none of her options are unreasonable, and they could all probably convey what she wanted to.

They haven’t spoken for as long as usual – India’s Sunday is going to be decidedly busier than normal, and she has work she needs to get out of the way, and England still has briefings to read through and write before he and the Prime Minister would meet with his youngest brother, North, on Monday to talk about DUP support for Brexit. Since the morning, he has already worked his way through half a packet of Paracetamol for the dull headache that hardly ever leaves him these days, and has assured her that he would strictly henceforth only reward himself with one tablet for every two pages written for the rest of the day, and if his physiology suddenly decides that the vast overdose he is consuming by human standards is too much, he will call someone.

India feels a small stab of guilt for this; this lunch she has planned has taken up so much of her attention ever since it was confirmed, pushed back, cancelled, and confirmed again, that their phone calls have been oddly short of late. Still, she had visited in June and fussed over England a bit then, and he himself had seemed sick of the listless indecision that caused a mild throbbing at the back of his head and had mostly wanted to ignore it, and work, altogether. In any case, she knows he has not felt nearly as bad recently as he had during his election last year, and his glut of Paracetamol is likely only because he is focusing on what he’d rather spend his time ignoring. She resolves to video call him on Monday, when for better or for worse her preoccupation would be over, and set up their usual virtual date where she would cook and eat dinner whilst alternating between fussing and scolding him over his meagre, sad-looking lunch. She texts him as much then and there.

 _Sounds lovely_ , the response pings back almost immediately, _I’ll look forward to it._ _Don’t worry about me, I know you’ve got other things on your mind right now. Good luck for tomorrow._

India sighs and scrubs her eyes with her palms, holding them there long enough to see white explosions behind her eyelids. She certainly has other things on her mind, and as much as it normally soothes her to talk to England, this is something she does not – _will not_ – speak about at length with him. Not about Pakistan.

She pushes her palms up until they press at her hairline, and when this does not release enough tension, leans forward to rest her head on her desk. The sharp scent of printed paper and cheap ink clears her head a little.

Tomorrow, she will see her brother for the first time in a year.

She had begun the long and arduous process of asking Pakistan for lunch the day she had come home from spending Christmas with England and his brothers and sister. That had been an experiment in and of itself. Her resolve had formed as England leant against her legs on Boxing Day, quietly and carefully watching his siblings put together a puzzle with whiskey and laughter and much gentle swearing.

When she had got back to Delhi in early January, she had found herself calling her Foreign Minister before she had even untangled the reasons why. As the call went through, she found herself asking for the meeting, assuaging the odd dread that curled up inside her with the knowledge that it would be refused out of hand. Sure enough, it had been. _Preposterous_ , she recalls the response being, _far too dangerous. What are you thinking?_

She had hung up shortly after, and called tomorrow with the same request. She was met with the same response. The same happened every day for the rest of the week, and her Foreign Minister had stopped answering her calls. She organised a meeting through his secretary the week after to politely remind him that she couldn’t ignore her request forever. After three more meetings, his secretary had told her apologetically that she could not set up any more meetings. She had left it a week, so they could think that she had given up, before mentioning to her Finance Minister in passing that she couldn’t seem to get a hold of the Foreign Minister. Three days later, she had been sat across from both Ministers, both looking decidedly bemused now they knew her request. She went to the Home Minister next, and eventually politely escalated things until the Prime Minister demanded to see her.

The PM had been more perplexed than angry, and concerned that this was the result of nefarious whispers in her ear. She imagined that this request, in combination with the remote working she had begun asking for regularly with little explanation – in the context of the working year it is not much and never for long stretches at a time, but before England she had never had a reason for any – had troubled him to the point that he suspected espionage.

Still, he loved her – as most of the leaders her people elect love her; in ambitious and occasionally misguided ways – so she had tried to remain kind.

“What is the use of continuing such hostility? It does us no good anymore. We have better things to work on, now,” she had told him.

“And the danger? You know they’ll probably say no.”

“Place all the security around us that you want,” she tells him placidly, “And if they say no, that is okay. I will stop bothering you. And we will look good, will we not, in extending the olive branch?”

“We’ve already reopened diplomatic channels, there is no need for us to risk you in making any more symbolic gestures – “

“You’re not putting me at risk.”

The look on his face had been both baffled and incredulous.

“ _I’m_ asking _him_. If anything, they should be worried, not us,” she had said, “What is there to lose?”

“What is there to gain?”

That had hurt more than she had anticipated. “I want to see my brother,” she had said, evenly, at last.

In the end, there was something to be said for sheer, dogged persistence. As some point, they must have all decided that she had begun to irritate them all enough that they may as well make her hopeless request for her.

They had showed her the letter the Foreign Minister had written. They had shows her the response too, as swift as it was unclear. _A nice thought. We are surprised and confused, but in any case, it is far too dangerous_ , had been its gist. But India had been dealing with that for a month already.

“Write another,” she had politely commanded her Foreign Minister, whose carefully disguised hope that this would be the end of this ordeal had melted into blatant disbelief.

And so it had continued; she had ensured that regular polite requests were issued, with increasingly short and annoyed responses.

India had fully anticipated that at least another Christmas with England would pass before she would see the results of her calculated pestering, and so that a long and eventful year lay between her and needing to confront the reasons within herself for why she has decided that she wants to speak with Pakistan. So when Pakistan’s election at the end of July was followed by a new letter to her Foreign Minister, unprompted, saying that their offered meeting was eagerly anticipated and could they call to discuss some baseline arrangements, she had been almost as concerned as her ministers.

Still, she could hardly resent that her efforts had paid off unexpectedly early, and soon, the tentative date had been set. She does not know if Pakistan even knows that she has spent half a year asking him to lunch. But the election had not left much time between a meeting and their respective Independence Days, and the letter had included a wary note that perhaps it was better not to dally – in this she had sensed either the prudence of a civil servant uncommonly aware of the perils in the ways emotions work for their kind, or perhaps the influence of a Nation himself, who would know such perils vividly.

And so their date had been set, quickly, haphazardly; rearranged and reconfigured. She has learnt the security arrangements to the point of reciting them in her sleep, to reassure her government. She has allowed them to place as much manpower and protection in the area as they wanted, knowing that this is a battle she must concede to win the war, but she had refused point blank to use a neutral location. Pakistan would come to her home, and she would make her brother food.

And as India switches off her bedroom light later that night – too late again; she will feel the dull headache from a lack of sleep tomorrow, for she has spent too long feverishly finishing her papers _again_ – she forces herself to feel happy that this meeting is happening at all. She considers herself too old to fell nervous about anything, but it has been at least a decade since she and Pakistan have exchanged more than a few words. They have far too much to say to each other, and she has no idea what they can talk about tomorrow. But she is not one to obsess or pre-plan conversations, no matter how awkward they are, so she casts about for a distraction.

She thinks of the fragile, tentative peace that had existed within England’s family at Christmas. It had been fragile because England had not spent Christmas with a sibling for nigh on fifty years and probably none of them were yet sure whether the addition was an improvement. And it had been tentative because Ireland had invited them, cautiously, after India had taken advantage of the time she spent in the British Isles to see Ireland more too, and had begun to prove that she really could and would love both her and her least favourite brother at the same time. But it was a peace nonetheless, in the way England had done nothing but smile tightly after Scotland had made some teasing remark, which had prompted mild shock to flit around in the eyes of all of the other occupants of the room. And it had been a peace in the way they had sat down to eat together, and laughed. And it had been a peace in the way Ireland had embraced her as they had parted ways, and murmured into her ear, “You’d better be here next year. If I’d known you could stop him being an arsehole like this, I would have chained you to him years ago.”

Somehow, India finds that a curl of reluctance unwinds inside her at the thought of a peaceful family. It is too close to unpicking the impulse that has led her into this. So she shakes her thoughts around again, turning them studiously to her biryani, and what garnishings she will find from the market in the morning, ignoring how much of this is guided by the tastes of the person who will be sharing it with her tomorrow.


	2. Lunch

In the morning, India sets out making her biriyani. It is an easy enough decision; through all of her considerations, this had always been the centrepiece of the meal she has planned.

She has known for a while that white flags ought to be raised, but there was far more to peace than that, and she has never known what flavours and colours and words should accompany such a dish.

She chooses, in the end, to make it with vegetable and paneer, but makes a small plate of lamb kofta for her guest.

One could be welcoming, and hold their own.

She is as undecided as ever about the accompaniments to the centrepiece. In the end, she thinks that an incomplete beginning is better than an incorrect one. Side dishes were complex, and perhaps said more than she wanted to say and said it too disparately. Better to make the main hearty and filling, so that frills are not needed.

The raita she makes last, a simple concoction of milk and yoghurt and mint and coriander. It is to sooth a meal down, and cool passionate flavours.

All in all, her meal sets out everything she will try to say.

She keeps her attention on her cooking, paying more mind than she would to the motions her hands have followed for years. She places things in big pots to keep them warm and the fridge to keep them cool, studiously ignoring the sick anticipation she feels. She has hurtled towards this point quite determinedly without thinking about why. India has told many people that she believes in peace and diplomacy and working for better futures. They are not bad explanations or goals, and she has said them over for so long that the lie fits inside her almost in the shape of the truth. Perhaps this meeting would be smoother if she kept it that way.

She is happy with her morning’s work, and considers sending a picture to England, who lavishes all the attention she wants and far more than she needs on her cooking. Her phone is already held up to take the picture, when suddenly it occurs to her that this meal is none of England’s business, and puts it away.

India’s hands are now free, which leaves her mind far too free. She goes across to the armed officer, perched awkwardly and discreetly in the office chair in her tiny office across from the dining room, and tries to strike up a conversation about his little daughter. She is five now, India knows, but she does not even get to hear the end of the story about how she got into the flour bag in the kitchen before the doorbell rings.

India’s heart sinks.

She bids a goodbye to her officer, who salutes her and readies himself.

She anticipates that the door will open to bulky, indistinguishable security personnel, so when Pakistan stands right up against her threshold and the intensity of the stare he had been giving her door falls accidentally onto her, his fingers twisting uncomfortably around a worn little blue plastic bag, her breath catches audibly in her throat.

He probably hears this, because he takes an automatic step back, away from her, onto the foot of a half-hidden plainclothes officer behind him. To his credit, the officer, takes it manfully, and nothing but a slight scrunch of his face tells her his country has just heavily mashed his heel into his toes.

“Come in,” India says in Hindi, recovering quickly. She waves both of them in, and the two stand awkwardly in the hallway, holding their arms like logs.

“Would you like some tea?” she speaks to Pakistan’s protection, but she is careful to hold her body so the question seems to encompass them both.

Pakistan twists the strings of his bag loudly, and looks at his officer, who looks mildly perturbed to be offered tea by the person he had been detailed to protect his country from, should things come to that.

“Thank you, that is very kind,” he responds in lightly accented Hindi, “but I should be fine. I will just sit here. Carry on as you will,” he finishes courteously, formally in Urdu.

He settles himself awkwardly on the edge of a sofa in her living room.

India turns slowly back to her brother.

“How are you?” she asks – after a mild moment of indecision, but she settles on Hindi in the end.

“Well,” he nods, “And you?” and he too seems to have eventually decided on Urdu.

No matter, India thinks. The languages are mutually intelligible, even to their humans. A cautious courtesy, she decides to deem it, that when India speaks practically all of Pakistan’s tongues and he understands most of hers, they have chosen to speak in similar ways rather than in different ones.

“I am well, too,” she tries for a smile, but her mouth feels too tight in her face.

There is a stodgy pause. Pakistan is half-watching her, eyes half-darting around her flat. She wonders how it looks to him; the sandals heaped untidily by the door, the bright little cactus that Brazil gave her last year sitting in its pot on the side-table, thriving only by virtue of the fact it needs little help from her to do so, the dining table behind her looking, for once, cold and formal and devoid of the pots and Tupperware and lace-covered glasses that usually dot about it.

“These are for you,” Pakistan says, speaking to the little blue bag twisting his hands. He lurches forward uncomfortably to hand it to her, and she is struck soundly by the fact he is now a good half foot taller than her.

The boy – _the man_ , she checks herself, for he has become a _man_ in the years she has spent turned away from him – that leans in to her for a minute seems utterly, completely unfamiliar. His hands and fingers are long as they hold out the bag to her, his face marble-smooth and his hair black and gleaming as brightly as the neat stubble he sports around his chin.

But she cannot go much further than his face before the breath melts away from her lungs again – if she ever dreams of Pakistan, it is when she dreams of the pain so great she is still not sure how she survived it, and in her dreams his face is screwed up with pain and hatred that burns too black and deep for the child that contains it.

In the intervening years, she has seem him grow across the conference table at meetings, at Asian summits, hell, at talks over _nuclear warfare_ , but in her mind he has always remained the angry boy who survived. But now the boy is here; the boy is standing in her flat, and the boy is, without a doubt, gone.

In his shoes stands a man she has never known, and his eyes – his wide hazel eyes flecked with green and gold and grey that he gets from his northern people; eyes that fuel her one petty jealousy because in their many thousands of years, _her_ eyes have never seen fit to go beyond their plain, dull brown even if she holds similar people within herself – hold nothing but the blank, calm smoothness of his face. It is jarring, frightening, when in the deepest reaches of her consciousness, Pakistan has never stopped being a boy in pain.

She realises her mistake when Pakistan’s blank eyes betray a touch of bewilderment – she has been staring at the bag he has been holding out for too long, and by the time breath floods her body again and she goes to take it, he has already begun to withdraw his hand. What ensues is accidentally snatching the bag from his hand, her nails grazing his skin slightly. He flinches, hands balling up into bony fists.

In a way, it disturbs her less than his calm.

But he has already unballed his hands, and he hears him sucking in a deep gulp of air as she opens the little bag. Inside is a paper box of jalebi and barfi; coloured with a brand she knows is popular on both sides of their borders. She smiles a little despite herself – someone has taught the boy – the _man_ – manners, even if it wasn’t her.

“Thank you,” she says, being careful to look into his eyes. “Come and sit down, the food will be getting cold.” She gestures him towards her table and he follows obediently enough, sitting at the chair she nods at.

“You can wash your hands there, if you like,” she nods again at the little sink at the side of the room before disappearing into her kitchen.

If she lets herself linger here, she will stay here all day, so she seizes the tub of biriyani and the kofta and plates and glasses and struts out of the kitchen, balancing them all precariously.

And almost collides with Pakistan as he returns from the sink to his seat. They both stop just in time. Pakistan holds up his hands uncertainly, a half-formed offer to take some of the myriad things she is holding, but she side-steps him and places everything on her table, putting down the glass she has held balanced by her chin last. She can’t be sure, but she hears something like a sigh behind her.

“I didn’t know what you’d like,” India says as he retakes his seat and she begins to dole out biriyani, “So take as much as you want. You don’t have to finish it all.” She pours water for them both, pushes the lamb gently towards him and takes her seat opposite him.

Pakistan takes a mouthful, and offers a compliment. Whether it is perfunctory or meaningful, she does not know him well enough to tell. Still he helps himself to lamb eagerly enough. India, out of politeness, watches him more than she eats. It is not a custom he does not follow himself, but her gaze seems to stiffen his movements as it stays on him.

“How was your journey?” India asks, to break the silence.

“Fine. We drove here from the border.”

“That’s a long drive.”

“Well, it seemed the most secure when they planned it. I suppose that’s why they chose to do so.”

“Was it just the two of you?”

Pakistan grimaces. “I’m not really supposed to say,” he tells her, eyes on his food.

“Oh. Well I suppose that – ”

“Why did you ask me to come here?” Pakistan asks suddenly. He swallows and looks at her, though the very bones of his face seem unwilling to do so.

India sucks in a deep breath and turns her gaze down to her own food. Even a few years ago, she would have deflected, thinking it unseemly to delve so deep into the recesses inside her over a meal. But a few years ago, she had thought herself barely willing to be in any sort of committed relationship. And a few years ago, this lunch would have been unthinkable. Deflection, she has learnt, is an aversion within herself she wants rid of.

“I wanted to speak with you,” India says, truthfully and mildly enough, “We haven’t ever had a good relationship, and – and that’s partly my fault, though I’ve never said that to you. I would like to…to be on better terms with you.” It is not the way she speaks, but it is the way she has spoken of late, and she is more than a little proud of herself for the change.

“We are on better terms than before, are we not?” Pakistan is still looking unwillingly at her. The set of his face makes him look disgusted.

India pushes around a morsel of food on her plate. “Yes, I suppose we have been on worse terms in the past than we are now. But I wouldn’t call these good terms.”

“What would you have me do about that?”

India meets his gaze now, in time to see that his hazel eyes are sparking.

“Nothing,” she says calmly, “But I look back at my actions towards you this last century, and now I think that they are not becoming of the way I want to treat my brother. I –”

“Your brother?”

“Yes,” India says, side-tracked, “My brother. What else would you be? My sister?” she asks incredulously.

Pakistan makes an odd noise at the back of this throat. “You told me plainly that I wasn’t your brother.”

India feels something cold twist in her stomach. “I’ve never said that.”

Pakistan’s eyes do not so much spark now as burn. “You were always better than me at hiding the parts of yourself you didn’t want people to see. I see you’ve begun to hide them well enough even you can no longer find them,” he sneers.

“Pakistan, I don’t know what you mean,” India tells him. She thinks, oddly, of how she did not utter the name his people had chosen for him aloud until almost thirty years had passed from his birth.

Something like a startled snarl escapes Pakistan, “Perhaps it’s so insignificant to you that you simply forgot. Do you really not remember? When you first met me, when England first brought me to you? You told me I could never be your brother. You told England I wouldn’t survive my first decade.”

The words stir a faint memory; something India has never allowed herself to consciously remember. Or perhaps her body had no longer had the capacity to remember, for all her hopes of freedom, of unification, since the start of the war – the war that showed the last one had not ended all wars, as if such a thing were even possible – had been doused in an accelerant that burnt away at her very being. A burn that she had seen engulf friends and lovers for centuries, a burn she had thought, like a coward, her long life meant she would somehow avoid the flames of; the burn of secession. The burn of her very insides, her beating heart, saying in her streets and in her parliament that they no longer wanted to be a part of her.

England had _panicked_ , the _fool_ , thinking that after all he claimed to have made her, she would finally die by his hand – as if she wouldn’t have taken death if she could to escape such pain anyway. He had brought Pakistan to her as she burned, a child still so small he had needed England’s arms – though he bit and scratched against them – to hold him up enough to look at her. England had told her in a tone that sounded more like begging that they could both live, that this new child’s complexion and eyes were clear proof that their people would divide just enough to fuel _two_ lasting nations. They had never even thought, then, that there would be three.

India does not often think of the burning. She has people to lead. There is little she has ever taken from that time, other than at first a raging anger, replaced over the decades by a steelier courage. She may as well as babbled nonsense at Pakistan for all she remembers from her time on her mental pyres. She barely remembers even England, and he had hovered constantly, buzzing out the same hopeful words at her like a mosquito.

That _this_ is the period that Pakistan has taken so much offence from, when he was so young and could scarcely have been much more sane than she, is enough to make her laugh.

She sees though, as soon as the breathy chuckle leaves her throat, that she has made things worse. Pakistan’s face darkens like late afternoon monsoon clouds.

“Pakistan,” she says hurriedly, “I said that when I was going mad. You can’t have thought I meant it.”

“You _said_ it. You said it knowingly.”

“I didn’t mean it! Obviously, you’re my brother. How can you not see that?”

“What does that mean?” Pakistan snarls, pushing his chair back. “The first thing you ever said to me was that I wasn’t your brother. You wouldn’t even _look_ at me for years. How am I supposed to see anything else? We have _nuclear weapons_ pointed at each other.”

“Pakistan, when I said that to you, I was in _pain_ ,” India’s voice breaks on the last word; as emotionally open as she has tried to be in recent years, there is nothing natural to her about admitting vulnerability. It makes her voice rough with anger: “And so were you. Even if you can’t understand how I felt, you must remember how _you_ felt. Did you honestly say nothing you didn’t mean in those years?”

“Yes. You made sure I didn’t speak to too many people in those years, if you remember,” Pakistan snorts, kicking his chair aside. Behind him, his officer stands nervously. “I think it’s time I left.”

India finds herself standing too. There is enough frustration in her to scream at her stupid, _foolish_ younger brother, to tell him there is no great honour in wearing his feelings on his chest and nursing his wounds –

But she has learnt a lot about herself in the last few years. And she has learnt a lot about talking.

So instead she says, softly, “I’m sorry, Pakistan.”

It is unexpected enough that Pakistan blinks, some colour leaving his face. Behind him, his protection seems equally baffled.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, and he grips the chair he has thrown aside, “I shouldn’t have said that to you. I wish I hadn’t. I didn’t mean it. I’ve never not seen you as my brother. I’m sorry you ever had to think otherwise.”

Pakistan blinks again. He looks at her for a long moment, his hazel eyes narrowed. “I’ve never heard you say ‘sorry’,” he says at last.

India huffs. “We’ve never really apologised to each other much,” she tells him, hoping he catches the gentle, implicit ‘me neither’ in what she says.

Pakistan licks his lips.

“Will you sit down?” India asks, sitting down herself, “Please?”

“I’ve never heard you say ‘please’, either,” Pakistan says. He puts his chair back against the table and sits down.

India smiles tightly. “Like I said – better terms.”

Pakistan blinks again – and smiles a small, polite, tentative smile.

Something pulls inside India when she sees how unfamiliar it makes his face look. “Have some more,” she says, and pushes the tub of biriyani to him.

He ladles himself out some more.

Behind him, his officer sinks back down onto her sofa, eyeing the pair of them warily.

“So,” India tries for a beginning, “You know now why I asked you here. Can I ask why you came?”

Pakistan freezes, mid-chew. “I – I don’t know. You asked, so I came.”

“Oh. I suppose your government didn’t tell you the first few times we asked – ”

“No – no, they showed me all of the letters. From January.”

“You said ‘yes’ only this time,” India says, hoping the question is evident enough that she does not need to push it forward.

Pakistan blinks, as if the question has only just occurred to him. “My people were not very keen on the idea, to begin with. It didn’t seem as if there was any other answer but to decline. After the election – well, different people are around now. They gave me the choice.”

“And you said ‘yes’?”

Pakistan shrugs. He takes himself another piece of lamb, leaving the last one on the dish out of politeness. “I don’t intend to make relations worse.”

That has to be good enough for now, India tells herself strictly.

“I’m glad you came,” she tells him.

Pakistan nods, looking embarrassed. “As am I,” he says, though she does not know whether it is cordiality that makes him say it.

There is another stodgy silence.

“Why do you see me as your brother?” Pakistan asks suddenly, intently sucking the last scrapes of his plate off his fingers.

It is India’s turn to blink mutely. “Because you are,” she says. She is not sure what other explanation there can be.

Pakistan wrinkles his nose slightly, so there must be more to say that she cannot see. She decides it is safest to admit as much: “I’m not sure what else I can say, Pakistan.”

He looks at her strangely. “You don’t like me,” he states slowly.

India is not sure that this helps her. Or that it is true. “I was very angry at the way things happened seventy years ago. It made me say some cruel things, as I can now see,” she allows, “That doesn’t mean I don’t like you.”

Pakistan looks her so incredulously that she moves to add: “I know many of our people have less than cordial feelings towards each other. But what happened seventy years ago is not really my fault, and it can’t really be yours, either.”

“What are you saying?”

India feels a flicker of annoyance that something so obvious needs spelling out. “I don’t dislike you. I don’t even know you. I don’t think you really know me, either. How can we really dislike other?”

Pakistan nods slowly, and exhales. “That’s true.”

India wants to ask, feels an oddly intense curiosity about what he would say if she reversed his question, if she asked whether she was a sister to him, but she probably knows the answer. It doesn’t help today’s objective, at any rate.

“There’s some raita, if you want it,” she says abruptly, and goes to fetch it from the fridge.

This time, she leaves more sedately, avoiding another almost-collision with Pakistan as he returns from washing his hands at the sink.

“I saw your Test match last week,” Pakistan offers, as he helps himself to some of the raita, “With Australia.”

India racks her brains to remember it. That she has to rack her brains to remember a recent Test match result is an alarming reminder that she has spent far too much time this week thinking about biryani.

“You had some good off-spinners,” Pakistan continues hurriedly, when she doesn’t say anything, “A shame about the score in the end, but some good wickets, surely?”

India hastens to agree, before his innocent conversation is wrapped into knots.

The analysis of the match takes them remarkably easily through desert and a round of obligatory post-lunch tea. She had forgotten that this stranger who was her brother knew just as much about her favourite sport as she did. She opens the box of jalebi that he brought and they dip some into their tea. It’ll be nice to have this as some ammunition, she thinks, when she inevitably disagrees with England over the minutiae of acceptable tea-dunking snacks again in the near future.

She is about to offer a second cup when Pakistan’s officer calls his attention quietly.

“Sir? Sir, we will need to leave so are at the border before dusk, sir. We may need to leave soon, sir.”

“Of course,” says India, quickly, so Pakistan does not need to be rude, “Of course. I don’t want to cause a delay in the arrangements.”

Pakistan nods and stands up. He looks suddenly awkward again, in the wake of no real customs to offer for taking his sudden leave.

She nods at the door and walks them over to it to save him the bother of inventing some. It feels hurried to her too, but she and Pakistan rarely have good notes, so they may as well end before this one is over.

She opens the door as the two men pull on their sandals. His officer waits dutifully for Pakistan to leave first. Pakistan hovers at the door, facing back into her flat.

“Thank you for coming,” India says. She touches the point of his elbow as briefly as she can. Nonetheless, his eyes widen a little at the contact.

Pakistan nods, deep enough that it seems as if he is bowing his head. “Thank you for having me,” he responds politely – his eyes flick side-to-side a little as he bounces on his toes, “Sister,” he mutters.

He takes his leave swiftly. She can hear him marching down the dark stairwell – no doubt breaking protocol – before his officer can follow hurriedly. She listens to the latter’s agitated voice following behind on the stairwell for a few seconds before she shuts the door on the hovering mosquitos.

She wanders back to the table and the remains of their meal. She traces a finger down the card of the box in which the sweets he had brought lie.

The birth of a sibling is to be celebrated by sharing sweets amongst dear ones. This is not that. But it seems that one of her family have found themselves an extra sister nonetheless.

India takes up the box and goes to her own security, swarming at the back of her flat. Together, they make short work of the sweets, and later she sucks the sugar off her fingertips, smiling.


End file.
